Nightingale
by L'Autre Femme Fatale
Summary: Robin and Slade must join forces to combat a greater evil looming over Jump City.
1. Chapter 1

You would never know it from looking at him, but Robin is actually afraid of heights.

It is a fear he must, of course, keep to himself. Not only because he would be mercilessly teased for having such a fear, but also because it is one that he has to face on a regular basis. He would have thought that repetitively coming face to face with it, he would be able to face his fear and overcome it, but no. He still feels a jolt of apprehension, a sense of panic when he must scale tall buildings or ladders or cliffs.

Always, he manages to stuff it down and carry on, maybe propelled on by the surge of adrenalin. If he were to ever stop and think about it, his fear is not ungrounded ― he could potentially fall to his death, on any given day. Or someone could push him off. Or the ground could give way, or the cable supporting him could snap. Like it did the night his parents died.

How long has it been, five years? Maybe more. He tends to blank out any memory of them, of anything that happened to him, good or bad, before that night. In a way, their death was his birth — the end of his childhood, of innocence and trust. And, very nearly, of love.

His life began again as a ward of the state, drifting from foster home to foster home, then group home to group home.

He hated all of them; these are memories he also tries to block out, to erase. But still, he remembers the beatings, the hunger, and the cold. He was eleven years old when Bruce came, and he went from scavenging leftover cracker and bread crumbs to eating chicken cordon bleu and duck á l'orange; from being beaten senseless with a mop handle to snapping criminals' knees with a bo staff.

The transition had been miraculous, but it was pretty easy, too. Under his guardian's stern and rigorous tutelage, he became a fighter with purpose, not just a vengeful punk with a chip on his shoulder. But he was that, too, as Bruce had once been. _But that was a long time ago._

Now, standing in his room in the dim illumination, staring at himself in the mirror, Robin wondered if that was still true. Was he still just some punk kid, or was he a hero? He hated to admit that he wasn't sure. The mission was supposed to be simple: hunt down a kid who had gone on a mugging spree.

The 'kid' had been huge, bulky and tattooed and mean. Robin managed to subdue him, but only after sustaining a brutal beating that left him bruised and bloodied, with possibly a few broken ribs. Put simply, he had underestimated his enemy, a mistake that could have cost him his life.

"I won't make _that_ mistake again . . ." his voice was accusatory, a harsh whisper. His breath misted against the glass, obscuring his reflection. He had taken off his mask, but he could not tell much of a difference. His eyes were ringed with black bruises. It was a wonder that they had not completely swollen shut.

Robin ran the pads of his fingers over his face, cringing quietly at the pain. "I won't make that mistake again . . . will I?"

He stared hard at his reflection, as if expecting an answer. Of course none came. This made Robin very angry. So angry, in fact, that he reared back his fist, cracking the glass. Shards of glass embedded in his flesh, cutting him. "Son of a ―"

Robin growled, biting his tongue to stifle the curse. He'd made a promise, after all, and he never made promises he couldn't keep. He was a man of his word.

Still, he cursed inside his head, repeatedly and vehemently. He'd read somewhere that uttering expletives actually helped to alleviate pain. Whether or not it was true, it was a useful thing to believe. Robin stepped back, slumping to his knees on the floor. He was exhausted.

Exhausted, and yet wide awake. He couldn't sleep, no matter how hard he tried. Even the usual remedy ― a glass of hot milk, with a teaspoon of honey or sugar for flavor — hadn't worked, neither had melatonin supplements or counting sheep (something he was incredibly skeptical of but which his mother used to swear by). It seemed that the only way he was going to get any rest would be to knock himself out.

The prospect was pretty grim.

Slowly, wincing with pain, Robin stood up again. He staggered back to the mirror, grinning ruefully at the small crack his fist had made, the small specks of blood. He knew what he had to do. Steeling himself, Robin leaned back, and brought his head crashing down against the glass. He cried out, he couldn't help it, and sank to the floor like a lead weight.

Blood trailed hot and sticky down his face, stinging his eyes. There were several shards of glass stuck in his forehead, and a long, terrible gash. He felt faint and dizzy, and his vision hazed. He vaguely hoped that the bleeding would stop, that he would not bleed out right there on the floor in his room. _What was I thinking?_ _Clearly, I wasn't . . ._

Robin sighed and closed his eyes, waiting for unconsciousness to claim him. When it came, he wondered, would he still be able to tell, if he kept his eyes closed anyway? Probably not, he reasoned. It would probably be more like drifting off, he hoped. But so far, that was not the case. All he knew was that it _hurt_ ― as if his whole body had congealed into one great mass of searing, exquisite anguish.

Robin coughed and began to hyperventilate, struggling to catch his breath. Something was wrong: but what, he couldn't guess, as he abruptly slipped into oblivion.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I'm not sure at all where I'm going with this. This writing is a result of my own interminable insomnia, and my recent rediscovery and appreciation of a TV series that I dearly loved in my childhood. . .


	2. Chapter 2

_A rose is a rose is a rose . . . a rose by any other name would smell as sweet . . . _

On the other side of the country, nearly 3,000 miles away in New York City, 14-year-old Rose Worth climbed out onto her fire escape, sitting out in the cool night air to watch the moon rise. Anyone who happened to look up would see only her pale, pencil-thin legs dangling from the metal frame. But then, nobody ever looked up. Mama made sure of that.

Lili Worth was well-known across the city. She ran one of the most popular bordellos in town, on the east coast, in fact ― some of her clientele included European Prime Ministers, wealthy entrepreneurs, and Hollywood actors. Her girls were a commodity, and she had made a rather comfortable living for herself and for her daughter. To an extent.

Rose had never wanted for anything, materially. Lili would hug her when she was a child and tell her that she loved her, and Rose knew it was true. As she grew older, however, she became a bit more independent. She liked books and flowers, and taking long walks through Central Park, the only place in the city remotely resembling nature to her. Put simply, Mama loved men.

Over the years, she had had a string of lovers: young men, old men, rich men, poor men.

In her line of work, she said, the worst thing she could do was fall in love. And yet she did, over and over. Rose became used to waking up to find strange men at the breakfast table, and she was always polite and friendly.

She learned never to get attached, to treat her mother's paramours with a certain cool detachment.

Usually, after a month or so, she never saw them again.

_A rose by any other name . . . is still a rose._ She closed her notebook, suddenly bored. She liked to journal, whenever there was anything to write about. Lately, nothing had happened worth noting. Mama generally left her to her own devices, and didn't seem to care that she had dropped out of school.

Not that she didn't _like_ school; she just found it boring and unchallenging. She probably should have been placed in a higher grade, but in a school that allowed its students to miss the equivalent of half a semester, and still be promoted to the next grade, Rose knew she was wasting her time.

So, she would not be going to high school. No huge loss. She could pretty much get the same quality education herself with a library card.

_That reminds me, I need to go get one tomorrow . . ._

she felt a small sense of satisfaction in that, a sense of direction and purpose, something she didn't experience often.

She heard a sudden crash, the sound of a glass breaking inside.

"Oh Lili, baby, I'm sorry! I dropped one o' yer glasses. Aw, I'm sorry!"

"It's alright, Wade. It's alright . . ."

It wasn't.

Rose could tell from Mama's tone, slightly tremulous, that he had broken a keepsake, likely one of the china glasses she had brought with her from Cambodia — priceless, she often said, and irreplaceable. And her dearest love had just _broken_ it.

"Goodbye, Wade. . ."

Rose mumbled under her breath, folding her arms behind her neck, leaning back against the cool brick wall.

Of all Mama's lovers, Wade was the one she hated the most. He was very tall, always dressed in a black tuxedo and white undershirt, as if he were attending a gala or the opera. His hair was grey, greasy and stringy, reaching his shoulders. His blue eyes were cold and flinty.

Rose didn't trust him.

Whenever anyone asked him what he did for a living, he would shrug, smile and give a vague answer about being 'in the hospitality business.' Right.

Rose listened as Wade continued to apologize, as Mama swept up the glass and dumped it in the trashcan.

"Don't worry, babe, I'll get you another one. Honest."

Mama's reply is slow and bitter: "You can't. It was the only one of its kind, the merchant in Phnom Penh said. I've had it since I was a teenager."

She pauses. "I think you better go."

"Why? Lil, it was just a dratted cup! I'll tell you what, I'll track down that fellow in Cambodia, and ―"

"You can't. He was killed in Tuol Sleng. It can't be helped."

"Well, I'll get you a better one! I'll get you a whole new china set, imported from France. How does that sound?"

"That's sweet of you, Wade, but no. I don't want a new china set . . . I want you to leave my house."

Abruptly, Rose heard a loud crash, more glass shattering. In the kitchen, Wade had lost his temper, and upended the table, still set with the dishes from their dinner of steak, collard greens, and mashed potatoes.

Rose imagined Mama flinching, backing into a corner. It was what she always did on the rare occasion that any of her lovers became violent.

"Who do you want to leave? Do you want me to leave?" Wade's voice rose in anger, and Rose heard him begin to beat her mother.

It was not the first time.

She heard Mama's voice mutter something indistinguishable, and then she began to sob.

"You ain't gonna send me away, are you, whore? It's _me_ who could send _you_ away, don't you know that? Do you hear me?"

Rose gritted her teeth in anger, dropping her arms by her sides, balling her hands into fists. _I hate him, hate him, Ihatehimhatehimhatehim!_ She wanted to scream, wanted to run inside, put herself between him and her mother. She wondered if he would have the gall to hit her, a 14-year-old girl. She wondered, but for whatever reason, she found herself rooted to the spot, unable to move, as Wade continued to beat Lili.

She heard something big and heavy slam into the wall, and guessed that he'd kicked the upturned table across the floor.

Then, there was a series of short, staccato slaps, thuds, and Mama's wordless cries. When Wade gets into one of his tantrums, he is out of control. Rose folded her arms across her chest, quietly weeping with her mouth closed.

"It's alright," she whispered to herself. "Mama will be okay. Soon enough he'll get bored and leave."

He got bored later rather than sooner.

By the time Rose heard him storm out the door, the moon had risen high in the sky, and all the stars had vanished.

She reckoned that it must be about 4:00 in the morning.

She stood up, stretched her aching arms and legs, and dreadfully slipped inside. The window over the fire escape was in the corridor leading to the kitchen. Rose slowly sauntered down the hallway, her hand shaking as she turned the knob on the kitchen door.

"Mama? It's okay, Mama, it's Rose. He's gone now, Mama."

"Thank goodness . . ." Lili was huddled on the floor in a ball, leaning against the pantry door.

Her bottom lip was cut and bleeding. One of her eyes was blackened and swollen shut, and the rest of her face was marred with blue and purple bruises.

"Oh no! Oh God, Mama!"

Rose rushed to Lili's side, pulling her toward her in a close embrace. "What did he do to you? Mama, talk to me!"

Lili smiled grimly, blinking at her daughter with her good eye. "My darling Rose, this is nothing. A man may break your mama's table —maybe even break her bones― but he will _never_ break my spirit."

"And your heart, Mama? What about that?"

Lili's eye narrowed angrily. "What do you mean by that?"

"I'd hear girls at school all the time, saying their heart was 'broken' is such-and-such guy was mean to them, or if he didn't feel the same way. Did Wade break your heart?"

Lili took a deep breath, leaning her forehead gently against Rose's chest. "My heart is not his to break," she murmured. "My heart still belongs to another. . ."

"Who, Mama? Tell me who it is."

"Your father."


	3. Chapter 3

"Dude, what were you _thinking_? Did ya think Slade was hiding in the mirror or something?"

Robin laughed ― he couldn't help it — and was rewarded with stabbing pain in his sides. He hissed and stifled a pained groan, clutching his side with his free hand; his right hand was now heavily bandaged with thick, bloodstained gauze cloth, and strangely enough, he had been handcuffed to the bedpost. The cuffs were small, made of dark green felt.

_Of course – who else would come up with something like this?_

"Are you gonna tell me why you've got me cuffed to the bed? I didn't think you were into this kind of stuff. And I already told you, man: we're just friends."

"Will you be serious for one second?! You have **no idea** what you've put us through these past few hours!"

"Us?"

"Yeah, dude! What, did you think you'd do something like that, and none of us would notice? If you hadn't already been zonked out, Cyborg would'a pummeled you! You're welcome, by the way ― _I _was the one who found you, and put your sorry butt back in your bed. So far I'm the only one who's seen you; but everybody else knows what you did ― or tried to do. Do you know how long Starfire cried because of you?"

There was no answer for a question like that. None he could give without sounding like a total douchebag, anyway. So he opted for cool, morose silence, giving his teammate what he hoped was a baleful, menacing glare. Apparently, he must have looked like he'd just broken wind.

Beast Boy laughed, snorting air through his nose, and something else — a sticky, green glob of phlegm dangled from one nostril. "Ugh, do you mind? I think I'm gonna be sick . . ." Robin paled and lay back down, turning over so he wouldn't have to look at it, opting instead to fix his gaze on the familiar black wallpaper.

"Robin, are you listening to me? Don't think you can just turn your back away from me and get out of this! Didn't you hear what I said? Don't you _care_ about what you did to Starfire?"

"You know I care," Robin replied. "What kind of question is that?"

"A pretty good one, I'd say, considering you went and did it anyway! What the heck were you trying to **pull**, man?! What were you trying to prove?"

Beast Boy put his hand on Robin's side, forcing him to turn back and face him.

"Ow, Beast Boy! Did it somehow escape your notice that I have _fractured ribs_?"

"Oh yeah, how could I have missed that?" Beast Boy smiled brightly, then promptly brought his elbow crashing down against Robin's side. "OW, SON OF A B―BEAST BOY! WHAT IS YOUR DEAL?!"

"What do you mean, 'what's _my_ deal?' How about you, huh? You still haven't given me a straight answer!"

"Beast Boy . . ." Robin's voice was soft, subtly threatening. "Get out. Now."

"Dude, what makes you think —?"

"Get. Out. Of. My. Room. **NOW**."

"Psst, fine! You don't gotta tell me twice."

"Actually, I did tell you twice."

Beast Boy blanched, staring at his teammate open-mouthed. Robin thought he was going to say something, and indeed he opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if he were trying to find the words. Instead, Beast Boy shape-shifted, assuming the form of a large green ram.

_He wouldn't. . ._ He would.

Pawing the floor with his hoofed front leg, Beast Boy snorted, and took a running charge through Robin's bedroom door, taking most of it with him.

* * *

He was the best at what he did. At least, he liked to think so.

But even the best had their bad days every once in a while. Still, he was loath to concede defeat, and long after his foe had called it quits and made his escape, Slade lay immobile in the alleyway, summoning the strength to stand so that he could get up and go after the man. It was beginning to seem hopeless, though.

Slade found that even the simple act of breathing caused him pain, and he knew from coughing up a few mouthfuls of blood that he was bleeding internally. He had sustained two gunshots, one bullet tearing through his left shoulder, the other embedding in the flesh of his left lumbar region, tearing through the soft pink tissue of his small intestine.

Almost immediately, Slade dug his fingers into the wound, extracting the bullet.

By the pale illumination of a nearby orange streetlight, Slade noted that the bullet was a .32 ACP. He hissed, swallowed down a rising scream of agony, and tossed the bullet out into the darkness. It was not like he could call the police, or have an ambulance sent for ― not without surrendering his own freedom, which he swore he would never do.

No, he had been to prison, and it was not a place he cared to return to.

"If I die, I die; so be it."

He'd been injured before, more severely, and he had made it through. _This time shall not be any different — I must simply take a few moments to regain my strength, and I will be on my way._ _On my way . . . but to where?_

He found that he could not remember where he was in that moment, much less where he had come from or where he was going. A sudden, intense wave of pain came over him and he groaned, clutching his side. The wound's diameter had widened, due to his removal of the bullet, and he was bleeding profusely.

The plate mail armor and Kevlar material usually offered him more protection, but tonight he had been careless. He had underestimated the enemy's prowess, and had actually turned his back on him for a moment.

That moment was all it took; two gunshots and a full-body tackle had rendered Slade virtually helpless, fighting to stay conscious as the coward had fled the scene. Had the roles been reversed, Slade would have given his downed enemy 2 to the head to finish him off. Not this guy.

Once he'd seen Slade go down, that was it. Clearly, then, the guy had been a rookie ― only a complete amateur would have left, without making absolute sure his target was dead. Slade puzzled over who it could have been.

He had no shortage of enemies, and he regularly received death threats, but there had only been a few occasions when someone had seriously made an attempt on his life. The last time, it had cost him his right eye, and subsequently his wife and sons.

That was what he attributed as the greatest failure of his life: while he was a near-perfect marksman and hunter, an accomplished warrior and soldier, he was, and indeed had always been something of a lackluster father. Oh, he had loved them, at least in the beginning. It was easy for him to love them as infants, then as children, when they had loved him unconditionally.

Until one day they no longer did.

_That sort of thinking is not conducive to my overall well-being especially at this point . . ._ beneath his mask Slade smiled sardonically.

Perhaps tonight would be the night that the world's greatest assassin would be assassinated? The possibility was starting to seem more and more likely. Slade surmised that perhaps an hour, at most two, had passed since the shooting.

He had removed one bullet, and thankfully the other had gone all the way through.

He had applied pressure to the wound on his abdomen, trying to stanch the flow of blood. Nothing much could be done as of yet for his shoulder — he had pressed a hand against the wound to try to slow the blood flow, but he was not able to reach the exit wound.

He reasoned that when he had regained sufficient energy, he would call one of his associates for assistance, but only if he proved unable to stand and retreat to his home and safety. Slade had a small house in the east end of the city, in a gated and exclusive community that afforded him the highest degree of privacy and anonymity.

Slade inhaled deeply, summoning his strength, and leaning heavily against the wall, he managed to make it to his feet.

His vision swam, and he closed his eye as a wave of nausea surged through him. When it passed, he stepped away from the wall, trying to decide what to do. Should he try to make the trek himself, beaten down and vulnerable, he knew he might as well throw himself in front of a speeding car.

No, he would not attempt the journey on his own.

He mentally sorted through the possibilities, any of the people he could call for help. William was on safari in Africa; Laura was in France, the last he had heard. And after that . . . there was no one left.

No one . . . except the boy.


	4. Chapter 4

_That's it,_ Robin thought, _I'm done!_

He sorted through his closet and chest of drawers, trying to decide what he should leave behind, and what he absolutely had to take with him. His wardrobe was thankfully not up for debate, as he had seven sets of his signature costume, one for every day of the week.

Aside from that, all he really needed were his utility belt, Bo staff, and mask, all of which fit neatly into his black leather Gladstone bag ― an heirloom given to him by Bruce, carried and used by Dr. Thomas Wayne as he made house calls in the 1960s and 70s. It was Robin's most cherished possession.

This would not be the first time he had run away. Really, he had lost count of the number of times he had run out over the years, usually over some petty childish disagreement. The duration of his absences was usually no more than 12 hours or so, with one glaring exception: the time he had chosen – or rather, been persuaded – to join Slade as his apprentice, when he was gone for nearly a month.

This time, he wasn't sure how long he would be gone. He didn't know and, frankly, he didn't care. Life was going to be a lot harder for him, that was for sure, and would probably only be even worse if he stayed. He would be subjected to his teammates' anger, their suspicious scrutiny. He would be regarded with mild mistrust at best, and as a dangerous criminal at worst.

He was tired — tired of their wariness, their lack of faith, of Starfire's mournful green eyes that stared at him in pitiable accusation. When he got right down to it, Robin had to admit (though he hated to) that he was really tired of _the team_. Yes, leaving them would be the best thing he could do for now.

With everything packed, Robin quietly crept out of his room. He made a mental note to give Beast Boy a piece of his mind, the next time he spoke to him – whenever that would be. A piece of his mind and then, the little green goofball was going to buy him a new door!

Robin shuffled through the corridor and down the stairs with near-effortless ease. He had spent so many years perfecting his stealth abilities that it was second nature to him. Security in the Tower was tight, but he knew all the weaknesses, all the loopholes in the system. And he had the master key card.

All in all, it took Robin a grand total of four minutes and 39 seconds to sneak out of the Tower. When the last door closed behind him, Robin immediately crouched, pressing himself against the wall, lest anyone should see him. This was also second nature to him, presuming that someone was always after him.

While such a paranoid mindset would send anyone else to a psych ward, for Robin it was merely common sense.

He lost track of how long he knelt down, pressed against the wall, but it was certainly more than an hour. When at last he felt confident that he was not being pursued (indeed, his teammates would still be asleep at this hour) Robin pushed off from the wall, running undercover of the predawn darkness. Abruptly, his Titan communicator began to vibrate, and he stopped in his tracks, petrified.

_How could they have caught me already? I can't believe this!_

He slumped to the ground in resignation, rummaging through his Gladstone for the communicator. He swallowed the lump of dread rising in his throat, and answered in a cool, detached voice: "Robin here. What's up?"

He heard heavy, discordant breathing on the other end, like something he would expect out of a cheap horror movie.

"Hello? Who's there?"

"Robin . . ."

"Slade!"

"Please, Robin, do not be angry. I did not know who else to call . . ."

"What are you getting at? Where _are_ you? We thought you were ―"

"_Dead_, I know. I know you have a lot of questions, and I promise to give you the answers, in due time . . . but first, I must ask for your assistance. . ."

Slade's voice trailed off, giving way to a breathless moan.

"Slade? Where are you; what happened to you?"

Robin heard a chuckle, and a series of short, panting breaths.

"Patience, Robin. I fully intend to tell you: I am currently sprawled out in the alleyway between Princeton Lane and 32nd Street. As for what happened . . . suffice it to say for now that I am rather grievously wounded. If it's not too much trouble, I would greatly appreciate it if you would come and help me get home."

Robin clenched his jaw, grinding his molars together. His heart rate increased, and a surge of adrenalin washed over him, prompting him to either fight or run away. It was his usual reaction whenever he came in contact with Slade, a sort of queer ambivalence, equal parts apprehension and anticipation. "What do you mean, 'grievously wounded?' What happened to you?"

"I'm sorry, Robin, but I'm afraid I can't go into detail about that just yet. You will be able to see for yourself, when –_ if _– you choose to help me. What say you, Robin? Will you help me — please?"

It took Robin all of five seconds to make his decision. "I'm on my way."

* * *

His wounds had gotten worse as time progressed.

While the bleeding had slowed, steadily coagulating, his nausea had increased. He had vomited several times, once being rendered unconscious for a period of 15 minutes or so.

When he struggled into wakefulness, Slade began to wonder what was keeping the boy. It had to have been at least an hour since he'd made the call. Jump City was rather large, a metropolis composed of four boroughs and a dozen or more neighborhoods. And then, of course, there was Titan's Tower, the sole building on a small island in the Queen River.

The city was massive, with a total area of 250 square miles, including the water. The urban population numbered around 800,000 souls, nearing a million when including the outlying suburbs. It had been the perfect city; at least he'd thought so when he chose to make it his primary residence five years ago.

Before Grant passed away, before Joseph had been kidnapped and mutilated, before Adeline had taken his eye. Before he had made the acquaintance of the beloved Teen Titans ― namely, Robin.

Slade closed his eye, finding a brief solace in his memories of The Life Before.

Slade did not consider himself to be a sentimental man; to indulge in such thoughts was vapid and weak, pointless. He groaned, taking in a deep, shuddering breath.

When he opened his eye again, the boy was there, kneeling down in front of him. His brow was furrowed, his mouth turned down in a dismal grimace.

Slade returned his gaze mildly, enduring his close, meticulous inspection. Robin chewed his bottom lip absently, and reached out a tentative gloved hand to trace the outline of the wound on his shoulder, his eyes noticeably widening even beneath his domino mask.

"Where's the bullet?" he asked, his voice taut and angry.

Wordlessly, Slade pointed into the alley behind Robin, indicating where he had thrown it.

Robin stood and walked away into the darkness, leaving Slade stranded in the steadily menacing orange glow.

Slade listened as the boy rooted around on the ground, searching with the bright yellow light of a small handheld flashlight. When he found the object in question, Robin picked it up and brought it back, holding the blood-smeared cartridge in front of the injured assassin.

"A .32, huh? I bet that hurt." He smiled mirthlessly, crouching back down in front of his nemesis.

For the first time, Slade spoke. "Yes, I would definitely have to agree that it **hurt** . . . and that is not the bullet from my shoulder, though I assume both shots were inflicted by the same gun."

"Both?"

"Oh, you hadn't noticed? I was also shot in my side – my left side, to be precise. The bullet there had punctured my colon, I believe. That would be the bullet you hold now in your hand. As for the other, I do not know where it is; I was shot cleanly through the shoulder."

Robin moved closer, leaning his head forward to get a closer look. Slade moved his hand aside to reveal the wound in his side, which was much worse than the one in his shoulder. The hole was wide, and it was literally looking _inside_ of the man, the faint pink coil of his intestines visible, reminding Robin of giant, blood-soaked worms.

"Oh my God," Robin breathed, flinching back. "Slade, who did this to you? How —"

"That's not important now," the assassin ground out, choking back a scream. "I will inform you of all the details later. For now, I need you, Robin . . . I need you to help me get to my house in Pleasant Point."

"Are you crazy? Do you really think I'm the one you should've called? We need to get you to the hos―"

"Robin, no!"

Beneath his mask, Slade paled white as a sheet.

"Robin, please . . . I cannot go to any hospitals. You know I can't do that. I would rather die than end up behind bars again."

"You might just get your wish, then."

Robin stood up and peeled off his gloves, tying them together at the fingertips. Slade watched, his vision hazed, as Robin crouched beside him, gently prodding his stomach with his bared fingertips.

"I need you to lean against me for a minute," he said, his voice trembling, betraying his fear. "It looks like you slowed the blood flow pretty good, but I've got to make a tourniquet to cut it off completely."

Slade acquiesced, leaning heavily against the boy's shoulder as he tied the improvised tourniquet around his abdomen, tying it tightly. He reached behind him, rustling around in his bag.

He withdrew a minuscule roll of gauze tape, and set to work binding it around Slade's shoulder, careful to avoid looking at it too closely. When he looked up, he saw that Slade's eye was closed.

"Hey! You have to stay awake, or else you might die, okay?" Robin gently shook Slade's uninjured shoulder, relieved when the villain's eye fluttered open, glazed and feverish. He struggled briefly, looking around as if he did not recognize where he was. He grabbed Robin by the shirt collar, pulling him close to his face.

"Robin . . ."

"Yeah, Slade, it's me. You called me for help, remember?"

The man stared at him for a long moment, blinking. "Yes," he rasped, releasing his hold on Robin's shirt.

"I apologize; I seem to have passed out for a moment." His tone had grown distant and listless. It scared him.

"Hey," the teen raised his voice, gripping the sides of Slade's mask in his hands. "I think you're going into shock. You've got to stay awake! I need to see your face; and I can't do that unless I take off your mask. Do I have your permission to do that?"

Slade nodded in answer, a slight inclination of his head. Robin moved his fingers around the mask, searching for the pressure points that he knew when pressed would cause the bronze plates to give way.

Unbeknownst to Slade, Robin had observed as he removed his mask once, one night when he had been his apprentice. But where were they?

"Behind my head," Slade mumbled. He lowered his chin toward his chest. Robin found the buttons, and pressed them gently, catching the halves of Slade's mask as they fell away.

Slade's skin had taken on a gray pallor, and his lips were crusted with dry flecks of blood and vomit. His lips had a slight blue tinge to them. His shoulder-length gray hair was matted with sweat, plastered to his skull. As Robin had expected, his left eye was covered with a black patch.

Slade took a series of deep, gulping breaths, his chest rapidly rising and falling. The makeshift tourniquet had been saturated with blood; the wound had reopened. Robin was going to have to use something else.

He rummaged through his Gladstone, pulling out one of his capes. He worked quickly to untie the knotted gloves and replace them with the thick black cotton. "There," he said when he had fashioned a new bandage. "That should be better, at least until I can get you to the house. Wait here."

Robin turned, bent to pick up the bag, and walked away. Slade blinked owlishly, his brow knotted in confusion. His confusion cleared when he heard the roar of a motor, and saw the growing glare of a headlight. Robin's motorcycle screeched to a halt just in front of the maimed mercenary. He switched it off, sliding off the seat and extending his hand, which Slade reluctantly accepted.

With a grunt, Robin hoisted the older man to his feet, steadying him when he began to sway.

"Hold onto me," he said, situating them both on the seat. Slade did so, wrapping his arms around the boy's torso. Robin turned the key, revved the engine, and sped off into the night.

In the dusty alleyway, the orange and black halves of Slade's mask lay discarded, slick with blood, alongside two similarly stained bullet cartridges.


End file.
